


Of Savages and Strays

by finnandfluke



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Animal Death, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Bucky Barnes is not a nice person, Bucky is good at what he does, Gen, I may have used this as therapy, I'm Sorry, Intrusive Thoughts, Irish Mob, Italian Mafia, Italian slur used, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, animal cruelty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-26 22:35:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6258448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finnandfluke/pseuds/finnandfluke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barnes' mission is going exactly as planned, but then Marty McLaren gets spontaneous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Savages and Strays

**Author's Note:**

> I had a really shit day, so I wrote this as a way to deal.  
> There's graphic animal cruelty, as well as mentioned violence against humans.  
> Warning: Bucky Barnes is competent, but not really in a good place. Like, there's a lot of mental fuckery going on in his head, with some pretty unhealthy ideation. Intrusive thoughts from the Solder are italicized, memories are bolded italics.

The McLaren family liked Jamie. The homeless junkie had showed up to the enforcer’s monthly poker night, guest of Connal, and beat the uppity Donahue kid out of all his money, speaking Gaelic as if he had been born to it. From that night he was an irregular fixture in the neighbourhood, coming and going as he pleased, and sometimes that worked out well for the McLarens. See, Jamie could get places that none of the McLaren boys could go, and sometimes he’d tell Connal or Duncan what he saw in exchange for favours. Never drugs, mind you, and when Connal had the sense to ask the only thing Jamie would say about it is ‘I don’t mix business and pleasure’.

Marty McLaren had thought the damn boy was a joke for a good two months, until Jamie had bought a gun off of one of his boys for a frankly indecent amount of cash. So half of the boys thought he was creepy, dead eyes and always wearing that dirty hoodie, and the other half knew he was an addled druggie who just got dealt good hands at poker nights (seemed to be the only luck the man had).

Still, none of them ever wanted to get too close to Jamie, and the McLarens had an appreciation for not asking too many questions. Besides, Marty had too many other things to worry about lately, not least the punk-ass fag who kept hitting all of his drug stashes. First he’d thought some drifters had gotten lucky, taken the lot when they ran across it by accident. And hey, maybe they had Jamie’s luck, and that’s how they found the one in the club. But then the bar was hit, and hit bad. The stash there had been hidden good, tucked behind a loose panel in the wall, one of them prohibition hidey-holes. The way Marty figured it, the only ones who could have known about it was the Genovese crime family, who’d been running the bar back before Manhattan was up to its tits in aliens.

McLarens were good people, Marty’s mam had said so herself, God rest her soul. All the McLaren boys had principles, and one of the big ones was ‘don’t let no one fuck with the family’. Marty’d be damned if he let the fucking greasers take back the turf his family had claimed, just cause they felt like it.

There were no less than eighteen McLarens involved in sniffing around the old mafia, and so far efforts had paid off with three mafia safe-houses and a shoot-out along the old docks. The damned greasers seemed to be spying on his boys, waiting for them to slip up in their new territory, and Marty was fucking pissed. Still, the family was doing good work, and the McLarens knew that good work should be rewarded – another of his mam’s proverbs.

Marty had already put in the call to one of his boys with ties to Atlantic City, figuring he’d plan a bit of a switch up to the poker night.

* * *

 

James Buchannan Barnes looked over his notebooks, fingers trailing across calendars and itemized lists, checking that his planned timelines were on track. It would be easy enough to start a fight with the Irish…or was he just extrapolating from – **_Stevie I swear if you get your nose broken one more time I’ll_** –

Barnes shook his head, clearing the voice even as he flipped to another notebook. ‘broke nose 3x/1 summer’ he jotted, under the eighth page labeled ‘Steven Grant Rogers’. Barnes stared at it for a few moments before correcting: ‘ ~~broke nose~~ got nose broken 3x/1 summer’

He continued on with his original plans, tracing over the list of items needed for the next – and last – two weeks of this mission. Guns, ammunition, stun grenades, an admittedly excessive number of knives… aid kit (restocked), pliers (industrial and electrical), bolt cutter, cell phone. He moved to the duffel on the bed of the motel room, shifting through its contents and mentally checking things off of the list. He was low on ammunition for the SIG-Sauer, but had an upcoming deal with Alfonso Genovese, who wanted the names of the Irish enforcers that had killed three of his men. Barnes had had the patsies picked out from the moment he’d bought the gun off of Ian, so the deal was set to go smoothly.

Preparations complete, Barnes relaxed back into the chair by the desk, eyeing his cellphone. The Genovese crime family were easy enough to manipulate, but some of the McLarens might be hesitant to accept his information at face value. If the plan’s timing was off by much more than a few minutes it could spell the end to the mission. It would be better, Barnes thought, to make sure the hook was set.

Barnes pulled out the cell phone, dialing in Connal’s number as he stood up from the motel room’s desk. The call connected, bringing through the sound of drunken hollers and slurred Gaelic.

“Jamie boy!” Connal shouted over the ruckus, “How ya been?”

“Well ‘nuff” Barnes rasped, pitching his voice up half an octave, “but I’m a bit strapped, mate. Could’ja do me a solid and get me into the next game?”

Connal’s breath rasped over the connection as he huffed a few chuckles. “Do you one better than tha’, Jamie. What’s you say you meet me an’ the boys ‘round the basement o’ that ol’ tenement, one wit tha’ picture o’ Saint Michael on the side?”

Barnes would have preferred a basic back-alley poker game, but he was in no position to be picky. Besides, he might just gain the trust of a few more members if he showed he was game for anything. “I know th’one,” Barnes found himself saying, “when’d’ja wanna meet?”

* * *

 

It was going on to eleven by the time Barnes approached the tenement, gravel and dirt tamped down along the dimly lit path, freshly made by at least thirty people. If Barnes was lucky that would include most of the mob’s top members. The ground showing signs of drag marks as well – crates, Barnes thought, though what they held was a mystery. He only hoped he wasn’t walking into a game of Russian roulette – **_is your turn, Yasha. Are you as lucky as little Natalia? I guess we’ll have to_** – Barnes stopped short, shaking his head fiercely as he resisted the urge to grab a notebook. He hated most of the memories with Natalia; they were often brutal, insistent, and made his heart shrink back in his ribcage.

Moving forward once more, Barnes followed the path to a rust-stained door, grasping the handle with one hand as the other palmed the switchblade in the pocket of his hoodie. The moment he opened the door he could hear the drunken hoots of a crowd, obviously egging on a fight. ‘Great,’ Barnes thought, ‘I’m in a Tarantino movie.’ and immediately cringed. He’d caught ‘Fight Club’ at a small independent cinema that had been showing ‘the top 20 movies of the millennia’. For two weeks his nightmares had centered around a gun in his mouth, the explosion of gunpowder, the bullet that blows through his brain and finally stops the Soldier. But at least, for those two weeks, he didn’t have to watch himself aim a gun at Steve’s head.

Barnes descended the concrete stairs, walking through twisting utility corridors as he closed in on the sounds of the crowd. Turning a corner he entered into a large basement lit by bare bulbs and stinking of sweat and beer and violence. Men crowded around the edges of a reinforced square pit, yelling and spitting as two dogs threw themselves at each other, blood already covering their snouts. More blood was smeared across the walls from previous fights; in the back corner of the room was an indistinct mound of bloodied fur – losers of previous fights.

“Jamie boy! Finally made it to th’ party, eh?” Connal shouted, nearing Barnes. “So wha’ d’ya think, Jamie, wan’ in on th’ next round?”

Barnes had gone perfectly still at the sight of the dogs, watching as one – _Rottweiler mix, obviously fed steroids, scars on hind limbs, history of fighting_ – bit down on the neck of the other – _mutt, hyper-aggressive, broken front canine, signs of exhaustion_. Barnes didn’t need the Asset’s keen senses to detect the crack of the second dog’s shoulder; it was a splintering, jarring sound, and the memory slammed into him so hard he felt his teeth ache –

**_Bucky, stop! Buck, you gotta stop! You’re hurtin’ him bad, Buck, he’ll get the cops. Bucky, it ain’t gonna fix anythin’ now, the pup’s dead. I’m sorry Buck, I’m real sorry! But you gotta stop! Please, Bucky, pl_ – **

The truth of Bucky Barnes was worse than the world thought. The Soldier hadn’t been created by Hydra, just awoken, pulled from Bucky’s bone marrow and the rage that came with seeing too much and doing too little. He’d been brutal in the war, and that had been easy because he knew very well which people to take it out on. Without memories Hydra had found him pliable and capable of being exactly what they needed – a weapon to be muzzled when not in use.

The Rottweiler tore at the mutt until it was lying motionless on the floor, blood pulsing out of the mangled flesh of its neck. Around him Bucky heard some men cheer, some men moan, saw the exchange of money as the ringmaster hooked the winner into a choke-chain. A smile tugged Bucky’s lips into a harsh line – now, as in the war, he had a target – now, as in the years following, he was a weapon.

But now he was the one aiming the Winter Soldier.

“Ey, Jamie boy, y’all righ’ there?” Connal asked, nervous of the look on Bucky’s face.

The man corralling the Rottweiler passed the leash on to another man and pulled out a muzzle while another dog – _young, pitbull mix, timid, bait dog_ – was thrown into the ring. The ringmaster approached the chained and whimpering **– _pup! It was just a pup, and you- you son of a bitch, you just_ – **

Bucky sighed, dropping the accent as he muttered, ‘I guess I’ll have to find some other way to deal with the Italians.”

The muzzle went on.

The Soldier went off.

* * *

Sergeant James Buchannan Barnes had taken extensive notes on each of the members of the McLaren gang, documenting their sins and atrocities. He fed this knowledge to the Soldier, the marrow-deep rage channeled by Bucky’s moral compass. The irredeemable ones were disposed of as efficiently as possible; the rest were immobilized – violently – and left on the ground. The dregs not in attendance would scatter, and Bucky wouldn’t have to waste his time on them.

The Soldier dropped two of his knives, blades dulled from their contact with bone, and sheathed the last one back in his boot. Job done, he relaxed, and Bucky took a look around.

The room was quiet, save for the enraged barking of the dogs. There had been twelve in total, eight of which were dead, including the one that was still lying in the pit. The Rottweiler, though she won the match, had suffered a bite to the stomach that had torn through the abdominal wall. One of the others, currently caged, had obviously seen the ring earlier in the evening – half his snout was torn to shreds, and he just wearily regarded Bucky as the man walked past the cage. The third, also caged, was unharmed but bore many old scars and was obviously a veteran fighter; there was no redemption for an animal that had only ever known violence.

Bucky had taken one look at them and known there was nothing else to be done.

The shots were clean, one bullet each.

A whimper caught Bucky’s attention and he turned back to the pit. The bait dog was still cowering in the corner, muzzle on but not fully fastened. Bucky approached her cautiously, metal hand outstretched in case she turned on him. _No visible injuries, no scarring, probably from a kennel, thin – they haven’t been feeding her._ He choked down his rage, desperate to help, to be given the chance to save something. She timidly sniffed as he came closer and whined as Bucky gently took hold of the muzzle and pulled it off of her snout. The pup sneezed, startling a laugh past Bucky’s lips. He stood, unhooked her leash from the side of the pit, and slowly led her outside.

The night air blew in off of the Atlantic, bringing with it the taste of salt and – **_Stevie, sitting on the edge of the pier at Coney Island, gesturing wildly in his description of the perfect dog, “-he’d be like a real live guardian angel!”_ – **

Bucky glanced down at the young pup, cowering close to his leg, then back at the run-down tenement. The streetlights, dim as they are, still cast light on the mural of Saint Michael, sword held aloft and wings unfurled. Bucky knelt by the pup, gently stroking her head as she trembled next to him, gaze flicking between the many shadows of the street. “Angel it is, then,” he murmured.

He stood, gently coaxing the pup to move with him down the street, softly humming.

_With your feet on the air and your head on the ground…_


End file.
